The Girl Who Died

by Ragnar Jónasson

  ‘Are you going to stay on here?’

  ‘I need to stay with Edda. I feel she’s still here, like Thrá.’

  ‘Have you seen Thrá too?’ Una asked. ‘Have you heard her?’

  Salka nodded. ‘Yes … at least I think so. She’s always haunted the house, from what I’ve heard. It’s impossible to get rid of her. And perhaps there’s no reason to. I believe that people who die in traumatic circumstances always come back. But not necessarily because they’ve got unfinished business – unless you count lost opportunities, I suppose. Things just didn’t end the way they were supposed to and that’s why she makes her presence known.’

  Una didn’t say anything.

  ‘Just like Edda,’ Salka added after a long interval, in a choked voice. ‘Sorry, it’s just so hard to talk about.’

  ‘I understand,’ Una said. ‘Do you have any idea what happened?’

  Salka shook her head. ‘No, they can’t explain it,’ she said, her voice still thick with tears. ‘She’d been in such good spirits – there was nothing to suggest she had anything wrong with her. The doctor couldn’t give me any explanation.’

  ‘It’s … It’s just so awful.’

  ‘It won’t change anything now, of course, but I … I …’ Salka’s voice gave way. After a moment, she recovered enough to go on: ‘I’ve sometimes wondered if I might have done something …’ She didn’t finish.

  ‘Done what?’ Una asked. ‘What do you mean? She was just taken ill.’

  ‘No, I mean … You know, like my grandmother. If I could have given her something but blocked out the memory. I’d begun to think the house might have this effect on people, that there might be some evil spirit here or …’ She broke down in tears again and continued through her sobs: ‘Or something in our blood. My grandmother killed her daughter … Would I be capable of that? Could I have done it without remembering?’ She slumped forward on the table, her body heaving, and began to howl.

  Una got up and went over to place a wary hand on her shoulder. ‘Of course you didn’t, Salka. Don’t be ridiculous. That sort of thing can’t be inherited,’ she said, though she wasn’t sure this was right. ‘Of course you’d never have harmed Edda. That’s an absurd idea. You mustn’t let yourself think like that, Salka.’

  ‘No, I know,’ the other woman said through her gasps. ‘I know.’

  This was her chance, Una thought, unfair though it was to exploit the situation like this: ‘Salka, the man who came here before Christmas. Are you sure it wasn’t the man in the papers? That it wasn’t Patrekur, the man who’s vanished?’

  Salka sat up but didn’t look round. ‘I think I need to go and lie down, Una.’ She rose to her feet and left the dining room without another word.

  Una stood there without moving. Her thoughts returned to Edda’s death. She wasn’t sure what to think. Was it conceivable that Salka could have done something crazy and suppressed the memory? Could she have poisoned her daughter in a fit of insanity, just as her grandmother had done long ago?

  Una knew from her medical studies that there were drugs, easily available drugs, that could damage the liver but leave no trace in the body afterwards. Perhaps … perhaps …

  She was no longer sure of anything.

  ‘The accused, Björg Helgadóttir, is hereby sentenced to sixteen years in prison. The time she has already spent in pre-trial detention will be deducted from …’

  The wording of the Supreme Court verdict was etched on her memory. She had let herself hope, and that had been a mistake. Hope had made her disappointment all the keener. It seemed she wasn’t to receive any justice in this life.

  She sat in her cell, and now she had started counting down the days. There were years left, of course, but now the verdict had been passed and couldn’t be undone she had to reconcile herself to it and try to focus on the future. It wasn’t easy, though; it was so far from being easy.

  She had been sober for so long now that she had got used to the condition. The alcohol and drugs that had cast such dark shadows over her life were now nothing but a hazy memory from another world. And the more she thought about the case – she had no shortage of time to think these days – the more certain she became in her own mind. If she’d been involved in a murder – let alone two murders – she would have remembered it, however drunk or out of it she had been at the time. In spite of her confession, she couldn’t for the life of her recall having taken part in killing Hannes and Hilmar.

  Yet here she sat, unable to do anything about her situation.

  All the escape routes were closed.

  She met her lawyer from time to time, though increasingly less often with the passing of the years, and he still claimed he believed her; that he knew she was innocent.

  Perhaps he was lying; perhaps not. It wasn’t important.

  He promised not to forget her. Promised he would fight for the case to be reopened if any new evidence came to light; anything that could suggest she was innocent.

  The problem was that, so far, there was no sign of any such evidence.

  XXXI

  Una was sure about one thing: the man, who she still believed was Patrekur, had been looking for Hjördís.

  Which meant Hjördís might hold the key to the whole mystery, assuming Una hadn’t lost all touch with reality.

  For once, she was stone-cold sober. She could picture it clearly: Patrekur’s visit, the fact he had asked where to find Hjördís. Damn it, of course she remembered what he looked like. She wasn’t going to let Salka deliberately confuse her.

  It was the same man.

  It was nearly midnight, but Una didn’t feel at all tired. Rather, she was filled with determination to get to the bottom of the mystery. So what if it was none of her business? The fact was that she had been threatened by Guffi, whether directly or by implication. Salka had lied to her and to the police. The villagers had closed ranks against her. A little girl had died and a man connected to a notorious criminal case had come to Skálar and was now missing.

  She had to know the truth.

  XXXII

  Una headed up the track towards the farm, regretting the fact she hadn’t put on warmer clothes but trying to ignore the cold.

  Despite the late hour, there was a light on in the farmhouse.

  As she drew near, she could make out the shapes of two people through the windows: Hjördís and Thór. They didn’t notice her, cloaked as she was by the darkness, until she approached the front door and entered the circle of light, at which point she saw the quick lift of Thór’s chin as he caught sight of her.

  Their eyes met for an instant and he shook his head, almost imperceptibly, conveying the message that she should go away and avoid causing any more trouble than she already had.

  The moment reminded her, oddly, of that first evening in Skálar when the girl had watched her from Salka’s window. Had it been Edda … or Thrá? Had she been trying to warn Una? To tell her to turn back before it was too late? And now the same thing was happening again.

  She halted, unsure what to do. But she couldn’t back down now. She took another step forward and knocked on the door. Despite Thór’s silent warning, she had no intention of giving up. She’d had enough. Out of the corner of her eye she caught a movement as Hjördís rose to her feet. Then the door opened and Hjördís was standing there.

  ‘Una,’ she said, her voice emotionless, betraying neither surprise nor anger, fear nor pleasure.

  ‘Can I come in?’ Una asked, dispensing with all small talk. The time for that was over.

  Hjördís gave a curt nod and stood aside. ‘Take a seat.’

  Thór was still sitting at the kitchen table. He seemed keen to avoid eye contact now and the thick beard obscuring his features made his expression impossible to read.

  She took a seat at a discreet distance from him, and Hjördís joined them, pushing a mug and the thermos of coffee across the table to Una.

  ‘So, Una, what can we do for you?’ she asked, a note of exaspe
ration breaking through.

  ‘I had a visit from the police,’ Una said. ‘About the man who came and stayed with you.’

  ‘So we heard,’ Hjördís said drily.

  ‘He went away again. Salka made sure of that.’

  Hjördís nodded. ‘Quite. What did he want here anyway? This is … this must be the quietest spot in the country.’

  ‘The stranger who visited – I know who he was. His name was Patrekur, wasn’t it?’

  Hjördís shook her head. ‘He wasn’t called Patrekur.’

  ‘Was he an old schoolfriend of yours? That’s what you told me in church.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. He was at school with me.’

  Una darted a glance at Thór, who lowered his gaze, clearly intending to stay out of it. ‘I saw a photo of him in the paper,’ she said. ‘He’s the man they’re looking for in Reykjavík. He’s been missing for quite some time. Then I heard that he was linked to the Hannes and Hilmar case. As a suspect.’

  Hjördís didn’t say anything.

  ‘Haven’t you seen a picture of him?’ Una persisted.

  ‘Yes. It’s not the same man. I should know,’ Hjördís said, then added, with an edge to her voice: ‘I expect you were drunk.’

  So her drinking was common knowledge now. With a horrible sinking feeling, Una realized that there was a conspiracy in the village to blame the alcohol for her ‘confusion’. They had all turned against her. But she wasn’t giving up; she couldn’t give up now.

  Not when it was blatantly obvious from Hjördís’s evasive eyes that she was lying.

  XXXIII

  ‘Did he leave straight away the following morning?’

  ‘What does that matter?’ Hjördís asked angrily. ‘What does it matter what some old schoolfriend of mine did or didn’t do? I don’t even know what he wanted out here.’

  ‘I can always ring the police again and tell them to talk to you this time.’

  ‘Why don’t you go ahead?’ Hjördís fired back, even angrier than before.

  ‘Did something happen? While he was visiting you? Something that might explain why he disappeared?’

  ‘What the hell has it got to do with you, Una?’

  It was Una’s turn to raise her voice: ‘Everybody’s lying to me! A little girl is dead, a man has vanished. Perhaps the two things are linked – who knows?’

  ‘Of course they’re not linked!’ Hjördís shouted.

  ‘Then tell me the truth!’ Una shouted back.

  ‘There’s nothing to tell,’ Hjördís said, the heat going out of her voice.

  At this point Thór looked up, straight into Una’s eyes, then turned to Hjördís. ‘Just tell her,’ he said in a quiet, level voice. ‘Just tell her.’

  ‘What? What do you mean? We can’t,’ Hjördís retorted.

  ‘Of course we can. It’s our secret, for Christ’s sake.’

  Hjördís leapt to her feet. ‘Stop it, before you say too much.’

  ‘It’s our secret and I trust her.’ He looked back at Una, his eyes suddenly bright with despair. ‘I can trust you, Una, can’t I?’ Then he corrected himself: ‘We can trust you?’

  Una was momentarily lost for words. She stared at Thór, knowing perfectly well what her answer would be. She was dying to hear more. ‘Yes, of course,’ she said at last.

  ‘Fuck this,’ Hjördís said. ‘You’ve got to be fucking joking.’

  ‘It’s all right, Hjördís. Una’s one of us now. The whole village shares our secret and now Una does too. There’s no point keeping it from her any longer. We’ve tried, but it didn’t work. And I have no desire to see the police back here.’

  Nineteen eighty-six.

  Björg would be thirty this year. When she was younger, she used to dread this landmark, seeing it as the year when she would be properly grown up. But never in her worst nightmares could she have imagined that she would be spending it in a prison cell.

  It was five years since she had been convicted.

  She had been told that she could probably apply for parole in three years. That wasn’t such a long time in the great scheme of things. She’d missed out on so much already; the best years of her life had passed her by. She had long ago given up the fight to get her case reopened, as it seemed hopeless, so now the most she had to look forward to was getting out of prison in three years or so, burdened with a murder conviction, alone, uneducated and destitute. After that she would have to try somehow to get back on her feet and build a life for herself.

  She had long ago stopped believing that she had murdered Hannes and Hilmar. The police’s lies had lost their power of persuasion now that she was no longer locked up in solitary confinement.

  It was too late to do anything about that now. And clearly there was no white knight coming to rescue her.

  There was nothing to do but count down the days.

  For three more long years.

  XXXIV

  ‘You mentioned the Hannes and Hilmar affair,’ Thór began.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Presumably you’re familiar with what happened?’

  Una nodded.

  When Thór didn’t continue, she felt compelled to fill the gap: ‘Three young people murdered two men called Hannes and Hilmar. About six or seven years ago. The bodies were never found but they all confessed to the killings.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Thór said.

  ‘And, er, the girlfriend of one of them was among the killers, as far as I can remember. It was all very shocking.’

  ‘Yes, Hannes’s girlfriend,’ Thór said. ‘Her name’s Björg. She confessed, like the others. Hannes and Hilmar were mixed up in a drugs ring – a big-scale operation, with some extremely dangerous men behind it.’

  Una couldn’t remember the details, but she did recall the furore surrounding it and the way it had dominated the headlines. Even politicians had been drawn into the debate and had put pressure on the police to solve the case. Nevertheless, it had been some time before the three young people had been arrested and had finally confessed.

  ‘Una,’ Thór said gravely. ‘Una, you remember your promise. What we tell you now must never, ever, go any further.’

  She nodded, doubtfully though.

  ‘The thing is, Una, I know that the people concerned, Hannes’s girlfriend and the two men … I know that they’re all innocent. And that’s not all. I know who really did it –’

  XXXV

  Una had a horrible feeling she knew where this conversation was heading.

  She braced herself during the pause that followed Thór’s words. I know who really did it … She waited, her body tense, for him to come out and say it, to confess to murder, even double murder. The man she was so attracted to. Could she really have fallen for a killer? Swift on the heels of this question followed another: did she even want to know the truth? And would she be able to keep her promise of secrecy?

  ‘Thór …’ she interrupted, when she saw that he was about to carry on. ‘I don’t … I don’t think …’

  I don’t think I want to hear any more, was what she had been about to say, but she couldn’t finish the sentence. Her curiosity was too strong. She needed an explanation for the mysterious goings-on in the village, and she wouldn’t have been human if she hadn’t wanted to know the truth about the most notorious murder case in Iceland’s recent history.

  Thór looked at her, his brows raised: ‘Are you all right?’

  She nodded. ‘Are they really innocent?’ she asked. ‘And locked up in spite of that?’

  ‘Yes. Patrekur … the man you met … he’s the one who should have been convicted for the killing, not them. The sick bastard. The murdering piece of scum.’

  Una was utterly wrongfooted. Was Thór innocent after all? She experienced a rush of relief but didn’t want to celebrate too soon. ‘How do you know?’ she asked. ‘Were you … Were you involved in the murders?’ She immediately regretted having phrased the question like that.

  Thór shook his head. ‘N
o, but it’s hardly surprising you should ask. I knew Patrekur, though – knew what an evil bastard he was. I’m all too aware what he was capable of.’

  She noticed that he spoke of Patrekur in the past tense. ‘In that case, why’s he still a free man?’ she asked.

  ‘Because the police buggered up the investigation. They arrested a bunch of innocent people and the courts played along.’

  ‘If that’s really true, Thór … If … Why haven’t you told people? Can’t you prove it? Can’t you help those poor people get out of prison?’

  He hesitated, his eyes flicking shiftily away from hers.

  Una glanced at Hjördís, but she was sitting very still, her face grim, staying well out of it.

  ‘Una, there’s nothing I can do,’ Thór said.

  ‘Why not?’ she asked, her voice coming out harsher than she had intended. ‘For God’s sake, Thór, why not?’

  ‘Because they’d kill me, Una. Those bastards are unbelievably dangerous.’

  ‘Who are you talking about?’

  ‘The men who were – still are – behind the smuggling ring. We were disposable, you know – just the little guys. But we decided to get out while we could and go to the police. They’d gone too far, way too far. But somehow they got wind of the fact we were planning to betray them.’

  ‘Who’s we?’

  ‘Me and Hannes.’

  ‘Hannes? The man who was killed? Did you know him?’

  ‘Yes. We were going to pull out and go to the police together. But then they unleashed Patrekur on us.’

  ‘To do what?’

  ‘To kill us, Una.’

  ‘What? You said he killed Hannes and Hilmar. Was he supposed to kill you too? But you got away …’

  ‘Una, you don’t understand,’ he said, lowering his voice, then reached across the table and took her hand. ‘Una, he only got to Hannes. Although his body’s never been found, I understand it’s somewhere in the lava-fields on Reykjanes. But Hilmar … Hilmar vanished without trace. He not only survived but he’s sitting in front of you now.’